


you can run with me, and I can cut you free

by BuddysImpala



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Angst, Books, Circus, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, barlyle - Freeform, bisexual circus dads, enjoy my dudes!, enjoy 👀, fictional characters, idk wtf I just wrote, it’s very briefly mentioned and I didn’t write the scene so I didn’t include it in the warnings!, open-ended ending, possible TW for a VERY brief and non-graphic mention of rape, possible TW for depictions of abuse from a parent, surrrealism? maybe?, the ending is purposely a little vague, wishing a character were real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 10:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18259820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuddysImpala/pseuds/BuddysImpala
Summary: Philip wishes that a character in his book was real.





	you can run with me, and I can cut you free

**you run with me, and I can cut you free**

*****

1.

Phillip Carlyle loved to read. Sometimes, when he was still small enough that his mother would read him fairy tales, he would climb into his mother’s lap and insist on reading those tales back to her. He was a tiny thing then, but had a reading comprehension years beyond any other boy his age.

His father scolded him for it, said fairytales were for sissies. The moment he found out that Phillip’s mother read to him, he banished her from doing so. If anything, reading was only for business — there was no point in reading just for the sake of reading, in finding escape in pointless fiction that had no real impact upon the real world.

But Phillip read anyway, and his love for reading only grew with him. When he was old enough, he and his mother would sneak off to shops while his father was away on business and he was allowed to buy a single book — his family was wealthy enough that his father would never notice a few cents missing, and he would certainly never discover the books that Phillip’s mother allowed him to hide underneath his bed. He loved these secret ventures more than anything else, and he savored every page he read as if it would be his last.

Along with the books came a love for writing. Someday, Phillip swore, he was going to become a famous playwright — but he told nobody this, not even his mother. There was no point in dreaming when you were a child who grew up bearing the Carlyle name, your future destined to be a life of loneliness and misery.

Phillip dreamed anyway.

*

2.

Phillip still lived with his parents well into his twenties — mainly because his father would not give him a drop of his inheritance, except to pay for university. He wanted to become a playwright more than anything, but he couldn’t do that until he could afford to move out and away from his father.

But, at least he could get away for a few hours every day at the university. If there was anything he was thankful to his father for, it was that.

He was a Business major, as a result of compromise — blackmail — with his father, but minored in Literature. He wasn’t sure if his father knew about his extra classes, but if he did, he didn’t say anything. Being a Literature minor gave him the excuse to read as much as he liked... and it also gave him an excuse to frequent the university’s library. A place where he could read more than ever before — Moby Dick, Hamlet, Middlemarch, Great Expectations. Phillip frequented the library so much that the librarian knew him by name. (He liked to pretend that it was for that reason, anyway, and not just because he was a Carlyle).

Today, though, he wanted something a little different. Usually, he picked a book out within five minutes and hurried home, but today he took his time and carefully browsed every title.

“May I help you with anything, Mr. Carlyle?”

Phillip jumped, and spun around to face the librarian. He was an older, short man with graying hair and round eyeglasses, and he looked at Phillip with a raised brow and pursed lips.

Phillip’s lips parted, ready to say no, when he caught sight of a singular book lying on a shelf. It had a black, blank cover, and Phillip instinctively took a step toward it.

“What’s this?”

The librarian followed Phillip’s gaze, and scowled. He shook his head. “Somebody left it on the steps this morning. Completely blank inside, no name, no story. Nothing.”

“May I have it?” Phillip asked before he could stop himself.

The librarian looked at him again, frowning. “I don’t—“

“I’ll pay for it.”

Seemingly at a loss for words, the librarian shrugged. “Go ahead, I suppose. I don’t know who left it, and they clearly had no use for it.”

Smiling, Phillip retrieved the book. He was ready to pay for it, as promised, but the librarian waved him off, surprising him.

Book under arm, Phillip left the library and hurried home. He was done for his classes for the day and he couldn’t be too late, or else his father would interrogate him at the house.

He was already thinking of the stories he might write later on that evening.

*

3.

Coming home late had its consequences. Phillip went up to his room spitting blood, metallic taste in his mouth and harsh cut on his forehead. His ribs ached from where his father beat him.

Trying not to cry, he closed his door, locked it. He threw the blank black book onto his bed, lucky that his father hadn’t tried to take it away from him. Perhaps he’d been so lost in his fury that he hadn’t noticed the book... or perhaps he just didn’t care.

Phillip used a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his lips and forehead. He wished he could go back downstairs to wash out the taste of rust in his mouth, but he didn’t dare risk running into his father again that night. No doubt bruises were already forming on his ribs.

His body ached, screamed at him for sleep, but... no. Phillip promised himself that he’d write down his ideas before he lost them... if he wanted to get away from his father, he had to start somewhere.

Sighing, Phillip grabbed the book and collapsed into his desk chair. His ribs screamed at him.

Just five minutes. Just five minutes, then he could call it a night.

He opened the book.

...Wait.

Phillip’s eyes swept over the page, and he frowned.

This book wasn’t blank. This book wasn’t blank at all!

Lines and lines of text filled the pages. As Phillip flipped through, he realized that every single page was filled — cover to cover. Flipping back to the front cover, he gawked as words and an image appeared on the formerly blank canvas before his very eyes.

_The Other Side_

Shades of blues and purples replaced the blank cover, and an image appeared before him. The silhouette of a man, wearing a brilliant red coat, cane in hand.

Below the title, a smaller subtext.

_You run with me,_

_And I can cut you free_

There was no author name.

Hands trembling, Phillip turned to page one.

*

4.

His eyes were red and bleary with sleep by the time he finished. He had no idea what time it was, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the sun would be rising soon.

Phillip Carlyle was breathless.

P.T. Barnum had swept him away into a world of magic and hope, of happiness and wonder. He was left craving the circus, longing for the fictional circus family within the pages — Lettie and Anne, Constantine and Charles, even Charity and her girls. His heart ached, beating for a world that didn’t exist.

For a man that didn’t exist.

It had been... almost magical.

Tears welled in Phillip’s eyes as he closed his eyes and finally retreated to his bed. He thought sleep to be impossible at first, but his eyes were heavier than anticipated and they were closing as soon as his head hit the pillow.

“God,” Phillip whispered into the darkness with his last bit of conscious breath, “I wish he were real...”

*

5.

Much to his dismay, he slept late the next morning. Any dilly-dally would make him late for his classes, so he bolted upwards, already stumbling out of bed before his eyes were even half open.

His body felt like it was on fire, no doubt a result of his beating last night, but he had no time to focus on that. He—

Strong hand on his chest, pushing him down.

“Wha—“

Terror filled every fiber of his being, mind wildly thinking that his father had come into his room to beat him some more. Never mind the fact that the hand didn’t feel like his father’s—

Phillip Carlyle looked up.

A scream rose in his throat, but the same hand on his chest rose up to cover his mouth. Whiskey-colored eyes stared back at him, begged him not to make a sound.

“Please don’t scream,” the man whispered, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Phillip’s heart thundered in his chest, beating so quickly he thought he very well might drop dead of a heart attack at the ripe old age of 22. His vision blurred, trying not to process how handsome this stranger actually was.

But what was this man doing in his room?

Seeming satisfied that Phillip wouldn’t scream, the man dropped his hand away from his mouth. Phillip took a deep breath, eyes watering.

“Wh-Who are you?” he choked out. Classes forgotten, he scrambled further away on his bed, back against the wall. Thankfully he’d fallen asleep in his clothes last night and didn’t wear his ordinary sleeping gown.

A slow smile spread across the man’s face, blinding Phillip and lighting up the man’s eyes. He didn’t seem predatory, but—

“P.T. Barnum, at your service.”

*

6.

P.T. Barnum.

Phillip gawked at the man who stood before him. It couldn’t be, but—

For the first time, Phillip noticed the brilliant red coat. The sleek black pants and shoes. He clutched a top hat in his hand at his waist, his hair a sea of brown waves. A cane that didn’t belong to Phillip or his father rested against the wall beside the bed.

“It’s not possible,” Phillip whispered, “you can’t—“

“I can. You brought me here, Phillip.”

“How — who — how do you know my—“

“PHILLIP!”

Phillip jumped a mile in the air at his father’s booming voice, which seemed to rattle the walls of his room. Breath coming out in short gasps of panic, his eyes flicked to his closed bedroom door, then to Phineas. He had to be dreaming, had to be, but... what if he wasn’t?

“Hide!” Phillip hissed at the strange man. If his father caught anyone, let alone a man, in his room—

Thankfully, his father’s wealth allowed for Phillip to have a larger-than-average closet — even when his room was the smallest in the house — and Phineas was already slipping inside, hiding amongst the clothes, shutting the door with a soft ‘click’ behind him.

Right as Mr. Carlyle stormed into the room. Eyes blazing a ball of fire as he screamed at his son, screamed at him for missing class.

Phillip’s anxiety rose, ribs aching, as he stared up at his father.

His scream echoed the shouts of his father as Mr. Carlyle grabbed him by the shirt collar.

*

7.

When it was over, when Mr. Carlyle had finally beaten Phillip into enough of a pulp that satisfied him, Phillip was left crying tears streaked with blood on his bedroom floor.

He’d almost forgotten about the stranger hidden in his room, had started to think it was all just a dream, until P.T. Barnum stepped out of the closet.

He felt soft, calloused hands — hands that shouldn’t be real — on his back and shoulders, gently trying to turn him over, and he cringed. He couldn’t bear the humiliation of having anyone look at him in this state — not even if that someone was supposed to be a fictional character who shouldn’t, couldn’t, exist.

“Phillip,” a soft voice mumbled in his ear, “Are you all right?”

Phillip’s body shuddered with tears. If his ribs didn’t ache before, they screamed now — he was sure he’d broken one of them. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth, and he found he couldn’t reply to the man standing above him.

“I should have helped—“

“No,” Phillip managed to rasp, though he still wouldn’t look at Phineas, “I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“He would have... killed me.”

“I wouldn’t have let him—“

Phillip’s broken laughter cut Phineas off. He cringed, curled in on himself as his bitter laughter rattled his injuries further.

“You could have tried,” he whispered, still facing away from the man, “but he would have hurt you, too.”

Neither of them said anything for awhile. In truth, neither of them knew if Phineas could be hurt in this world.

After a long time spent in silence, Phillip felt a hand in his hair. He stiffened, but didn’t protest as soft fingers ran through his hair and gently turned his face so that he and Phineas were eye-to-eye — he could only imagine how terrible he looked.

“Run away with me,” Phineas proposed. Phillip jolted,startled, a low whine escaping his throat as his ribs screamed in protest.

“What?”

Phineas didn’t miss a beat. “Run away with me.”

Phillip could only gape at him.

“I may be a fictional character by this dimension’s standards, but I’m not stupid. You brought me here for a reason, Phillip. Run away with me, join my world, become part of the circus — you can leave this world, and your father, behind forever.”

As Phineas spoke, he became fuzzy. It sounded as if he were speaking from underwater, and, as Phillip’s vision faded around the edges, he watched as Phineas’s expression morphed into one of concern.

“Phil—“

Phillip was gone to the sweet realm of unconsciousness.

*

8.

He awoke on his bed, sure it’d all been a dream. A low-burning fire settled into his abdomen — his father beat him again, beat him bad, and he’d imagined the fictional character as some sort of coping mechanism—

“Are you all right?”

A low whine escaped his throat before he could quite stop himself, and he looked over to see the man in question settled in his desk chair. There was a glass of water on the desk, which he held out as an offering.

Phillip reached for it, but his fingers trembled terribly so the man had to help him. P.T. Barnum. He helped Phillip sit up and brought the glass of water to his lips. Phillip sipped at the drink thankfully, but blushed bright red at having to be assisted as if he were some feeble elder.

“You were out for awhile,” P.T. Barnum spoke, his voice a low, comforting rumble, “I was starting to get worried.”

“My father—“

“Out to work, and I believe your mother went to the market.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost noon.”

Phillip blanched. There was no way he could get to class now.

“My offer still stands, you know.”

“Wh-What?”

“You brought me here for a reason, Phillip. You want to run away, leave this old life behind - I know you do. So, come with me. I can set you free - you won’t have to face your father’s wrath ever again.”

Phillip stared at him, blankly.

“Not possible,” he whispered.

“It’s my job, Phillip. How else do you think that book wound up at your library?”

“Someone left it, someone—“

“Lettie, Anne and W.D., Constantine, Charles — they were all people like you, who wanted to leave their old life behind. Anne and W.D., they were victims of slavery before the war. Lettie escaped an abusive husband who beat and raped her once she began growing a beard. Charles escaped the wrath of a mother who beat him for his oddity and practically used him as a footstool. They all wanted to get away, and I helped them. So, please, Phillip. Let me help you.”

Phillip shook his head, looked down. His desk chair creaked and shifted as P.T. stood, but he didn’t look up until P.T. was cupping his chin, tilting his head up until he stared into warm hazel eyes.

“Please,” P.T. mumbled again.

Every fiber in Phillip’s body screamed at him, screamed as his eyes flicked down to P.T.’s lips. It was crazy, but the man was holding him so gently, looking at him with eyes that made him want to melt, and, and—

Before he could stop himself, Phillip leaned forward and pressed his lips to P.T.’s startled mouth.

*

9.

A small gasp came out from between P.T.’s lips, but he made no move to pull away. Phillip gripped him, gripped him like his life depended on it, and kissed him.

Kissed his very real lips.

After a moment, maybe two, P.T. began to respond. Phillip was half afraid that maybe, maybe, P.T. would pull away and scream at him, go back to wherever he came from, but he didn’t. Slowly, instead, he pulled Phillip closer. They sat together on the bed, Phineas seated at the edge with Phillip practically crawling into his lap, and they kissed.

Phillip was kissing P.T. Barnum.

Phillip kissed him until he had to pull back for air. He pulled back, gasping, and his ribs ached — they screamed — but, God, was it worth it.

They stared at each other, eyes dark, matching plump lips, and Phillip found himself panting.

P.T. smiled, softly, and reached out to trace Phillip’s cheek. Phillip sighed and leaned into the touch.

“I didn’t realize that you were—“

Phillip blushed and averted his gaze. “I had to see if you were really... real.”

P.T. chuckled. “Satisfied?”

“Very much.”

P.T.’s smile returned and he pulled Phillip closer, kissing him again. This kiss was softer than the first, less desperate. Phillip sighed and closed his eyes, thinking that, maybe, this was all he needed in life — this and nothing else.

“Come with me,” P.T. whispered once they’d pulled away a second time. His fingers dropped down to Phillip’s abdomen and lightly traced the bruises through his shirt. A dull throb had settled over the most intense of the wounds, but P.T. touched him like he was as delicate as a flower petal. He shivered against the touch and looked up into P.T.’s eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“You’ll never hurt again,” P.T. promised.

The words, his promise, wrapped around Phillip like a blanket he couldn’t wait to sink into. No more pain — that sounded wonderful.

“Okay,” Phillip whispered.

And so, they stood. Phillip gasped as he shed his old, battered skin, and watched as the shell of his former self laid broken on the bedroom floor.

“I’m—“

“It’s okay,” P.T. whispered. A whitish-gold glow seemed to outline the ringmaster, and he smiled as he picked Phillip up, cradled him in his arms.

“I’ve got you.”

**Author's Note:**

> so... uhhhhhhh... I have been feeling like crud for the past four days and I’m half convinced this fic was a result of a fever dream (ehehehe) or some shit.
> 
> Comment if you wanna! They’re very much appreciated 👀


End file.
